A/N: Hi again, people! Updates for Torn most likely will be regular (for at least a little while) on this day. I'll try to be consistent :)

Shut up, me - here you folks are...


Chapter Four

Gods and Daedra...

The last pangs of fatigue began to slip away.

I can't...keep this up...for much longer...

The young dark-haired man looked up. His face was drenched with sweat, and he was heaving deeply in and out, his hands locked tightly around his sword.

He was completely exhausted, totally drained. With a soft grunt of effort, he pushed himself onto his feet. He was unsteady, but quickly he righted himself, clutching his sword determinedly. He glanced over his shoulder. The mist was growing thicker, the snow more ashy, and that meant that the sound of those horrid creatures approaching was going to become harder to detect.

He had to be on his guard. But tiredness was numbing his senses. It was a miracle he could keep his eyes open.

He wasn't sure how long he had been in this place, but he completely hated it. When he had first woken here, he had thought that it was some kind of realm of Oblivion. He knew he had died, but he hadn't expected to wake up in such an awful place.

If this is Sovngarde, he thought, then something is dreadfully wrong...

This entire place—he couldn't describe it, but it felt like something was incorrect. He couldn't detect it, but there was something wrong. It didn't feel right...and it hadn't been because he had woken up here feeling a good deal colder than usual. It hadn't been because he had first faced strange and eerie spectral dog-like creatures that seemed intent on killing him and discovering that somehow, he wasn't able to Shout. It was something else, but something that he couldn't yet name.

He had fled through this place when he realized that more of them were coming. They had always caught up—they didn't seem to tire. Each time he had fended them off, but each time they only came back, in larger numbers, more ferocious than ever before.

But if this is Sovngarde, thought Jon, as he struggled to stay on his feet, dizziness overwhelming him slightly, where is the Hall of Valour? I have been to this place before...but I don't understand how it could have changed so much. I saw the glory that was restored to it. But this is...this is nothing like Sovngarde. Yet where else can I be?

But Jon knew he had to rest. He couldn't go on with his head numb with exhaustion and his arms like lead, worn from swinging Kodaav at his enemies. The elder blade, forged of an ancient steel from the homeland of the Nords, was still thirsty for blood, but Jon could not heed the mighty weapon's thirst. Not now, not yet.

He knew these feelings of tiredness well. Jon sank down against the trunk of one of the eerie trees that grew here, and leaned against the bark, trying to gather his flickering senses, trying not to doze but to give his body strength again. His old wounds were troubling him. They had been since he had first come here, draining him further of energy.

Kodaav rested across his lap, and absently he stroked its ornate handle, his fingers tracing the ornate design of the roaring bear set as its pommel. Memories of home plagued him in a relentless force, and Jon closed his eyes as nostalgia overwhelmed him. More than anything, he wanted his family.

But he was here, in this strange, twisted place...this darker Sovngarde.

It made Jon afraid. He had left so many behind...so many relied on him and he had failed them. These feelings were accompanied with how he had felt, the despair and the misery and the hopelessness he had experienced when...

No. Don't go back there. Please don't go back there.

An icy wind struck him in the face, stinging his bald scars on his chin and front, and Jon's eyes snapped open with a start. He looked around him—the scent of stinging snow, he knew well, but he had learned quickly while being in this place. The icy winds here were the heralds of those creatures, those monstrosities that continually hunted him.

Swiftly he pushed himself to his feet, Kodaav clutched in his hand. But his arms were still heavy—he could not fight. Terror overcoming him at the prospect of being hunted by those wraiths, he turned and fled.

He was stumbling over his own exhaustion, though. He could hear the excited breathing growing quicker, the paws drumming on the strange peaty snow behind him. For a moment, he wondered how many there were.

The ground began to slope beneath him, rising slowly uphill. Jon, Kodaav still in hand, threw himself at it, adrenalin starting to pulse through him, urging him forward, urging him on. He climbed, the soft grey snow falling away beneath his hands and his weight, threatening to send him sliding back down. The slope was steep, but short. Jon thought he could reach the top, but when he glanced over his shoulder, through the thick mist that hovered over the ground, creatures emerged, their blue bodies glowing like the eyes of Draugr, their eyes pinpoints of azure and focused on him. They didn't even slow—they charged towards the slope and began to sprint up it with careless ease.

Jon was stunned—how come they did not tire? Tiredness was fogging his mind and he knew he was in no condition to fight. Yet despair tugged at him. How could he possibly outrun creatures who were relentless, who did not know the feeling of exhaustion?

They had almost reached him when suddenly an arrow shot out of nowhere, and one of the beasts suddenly let out a wild, high-pitched shriek before dissipating into the air. Jon didn't turn around—he kept focusing on the climb, and he didn't want to hang around should the firer of the arrow be unfriendly. There was a second swish through the air and another high-pitched squeal from a spectral wraith. One more still pursued him, and it was quite literally on his heels. He felt its stinging cold breath on his leg.

Then it had drawn back as an arrow struck its leg, making it stumble, slipping back down the slope. Jon spared a glance over his shoulder at this. The phantom had rolled to the ground. Two figures were closing in on it. He was vaguely surprised to see that one was a Khajiit, and it was she who had wielded the bow and shot down the beasts before they had reached him. The other looked human, and was already rushing towards the creature with her two-handed blade raised high above her head. She plunged it down into the beast, and grunted with satisfaction as it dematerialized around the blade.

Jon felt his hand touch the top of the slope and swiftly heaved himself over it, a small cloud of heavy, grey snow rolling away beneath his boots and pattering towards the base of the slope. He thought he heard one of the women below shout something but he didn't stay to listen. The blood was rushing in his ears. He staggered to his feet and fled, unsure where he was running.

The mist, he realized, only was growing heavier here, thicker and thicker until he could barely see. He didn't know how long he ran for. The air felt cold and full of rot—it choked his lungs and Jon's pace slowed. He didn't feel safe but he felt he could not go another yard. His legs buckling beneath him, he stumbled finally onto his knees and his arms. Dizziness was pressing at his head. Nausea was overwhelming him.

So...tired...

The burst of adrenalin he had had moments ago had made him more tired than ever. Jon was tempted to lie down and rest, despite the danger, when he realized that something was shifting ahead of him. The mist was moving away. Curious and cautious, Jon looked up.

He saw that he had quite literally collapsed at the foot of a small slope that was not made of grey snow, but stone and earth. Pebbles littered around its base and boulders lined its edges. A worn path led up the short earth slope. Adorning it was what Jon could only describe as some kind of enormous stone temple with the entrance of it bearing a striking resemblance to Skuldafn. Tall pillars carved with unfathomable sigils and designs rose outside its dark entrance.

Jon wasn't sure why he did it. But he pushed himself back onto his feet, and blindly began making his way towards the slope. Numbly he climbed the path, each step becoming more and more difficult to take. He actually had to fall to his hands and knees and climb four-legged up the rest of the way when he grew too dizzy to remain standing, but using the wall of the temple for support, he managed to push himself back onto his own two feet and slowly walk inside.

He hardly took note of its interior, instead walking down the corridor until he stumbled and fell. Kodaav clattered from his hands and he knew he could go no further. He closed his eyes—exhaustion pressed at his body and he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


Jon struggled to open his eyes when he became conscious again, but he felt more refreshed than before. He had more strength, and he lifted his head, almost immediately to see the hilt of Kodaav lying a few inches before his nose. Stretching out a hand, he grasped its handle, relieved at the stubbornness of the metal beneath his hand.

He pushed himself upright into a kneeling position, his armour rustling on his frame. Then he looked around at his surroundings. Vaguely he remembered stumbling in here a while ago, but he hadn't taken note of what he had seen.

Now that he was more awake, less fatigued, Jon began to notice that he was in a long corridor that seemed to slowly wind down into darkness. It was only one very long tunnel. But that wasn't what struck Jon the most about this strange place. It was the fact that every single inch of the wall was covered in...

Covered in Draconic.

Jon stood up quickly. For a moment, he wondered if he was mistaken, but he was not. He couldn't read it, but he could recognize the sigils easily. He had seen them numerous times before.

How bizarre, he thought to himself.

He glanced back towards the entrance. It was very large, he realized, a graceful archway that didn't have any door and let the air flow through. But no mist was able to penetrate this place. He could see it gathering outside, at the foot of the earthy slope that he had scrambled up, but it wasn't climbing much higher than the first few feet of snowless earth.

Jon frowned, and headed back towards the entrance. He stood at it, feeling oddly small in comparison to the doorway's sheer size—it looked as though a dragon could walk through it and the corridor beyond comfortably—and looked out. Yes—the mist was only gathered tightly around the base, but it didn't seem as though it was able to touch the naked earth, only the soft, peaty snow that had filled Jon's vision ever since he had awoken here.

The stones, he thought, stepping out onto the balcony and examining the nearest. They look a little like standing stones. But further examination proved that they were not—there were no star patterns set on them, no signs. Only strange runes that he couldn't translate.

Looking at the runes, Jon wondered if they were Draconic, but they were too smooth and arcing and graceful and flowing to be. Perhaps it was written in one of the Mer languages—he had heard about how complicated their writing was.

He turned around, looking at the outside of the temple. Jon was amazed. It bore a faint likeness to the old monastery on the Throat of the World but it rose with leaping stone arches like the exterior of Bleak Falls Barrow. Covering every single inch of the grey stone, though, were sigils—he recognized some of them to be written in Draconic, but others in other languages. He was fairly certain that there was Daedric carved into the rock as well. He could recognize the telltale sigil, the emblem of the Oblivion Gate, amidst a mass of other similar-looking sigils.

A cold breeze tugged at his hair and bare skin and Jon glanced around nervously. He felt as though the mist was moving beneath him, and creatures were watching him. Unnerved, he gripped the handle of Kodaav tighter, for reassurance, and he tried to force away these feelings of fear. He was Jon. He was not afraid of whatever lurked beneath him. He had slain the World-Eater. He was not afraid.

But his nerves were unsettled, and Jon cautiously retreated back into the mouth of the temple. The moment that he stepped inside, he felt as though the cold beyond had lessened a little. Here, inside this unusual temple, the icy breeze couldn't touch him. The feeling that he was being watched also seemed to lessen.

Jon glanced back down the length of the tunnel. He hadn't even realized how dark it grew, how endless it was. Wondering if there was some kind of torch nearby, he moved forward, feeling with his hands rather than using his eyes as he moved further away from the dull grey light that flooded in from the doorway.

He used his hands to feel along the wall, and at the same time his boot kicked against something very solid and rising suddenly from the floor, his fingertips made contact with cold, stiff chain. Jon stumbled to a halt, and reached out with his hand. He was staring at total darkness with the light behind him, and his fingertips were sensitive, alert to every slight touch that they received. He felt out the chain again, and slowly closed his hand around it, feeling it and following it upward.

His knuckles grazed the top and felt the roughness of more coiled chain around a strong iron bar. With the flat of his hand, he felt its surface. Seized by a sudden suspicion, Jon moved his hand completely down, following the chain until he came to what he was looking for—a large, steel circular handhold.

A chain lever, he thought. Praying it wasn't a booby trap, he gripped the lever and pulled it down.

There was an affirming creak and a rattle. Then, suddenly, searing orange light and heat lit up Jon's vision. Stifling a cry of alarm and pain, he stumbled backwards, one hand going up to shield his face and eyes from the harsh glare and sudden warmth.

But then he began to make out the sounds of somewhat-familiar rushes. Jon lowered his hand a little, to see that the solid thing he had bumped into before had turned out to be a mounted brazier that was now brimming with bright golden flames. And all the way down the corridor, the darkness was vanishing as more braziers were being lit up in a chain reaction, lighting with a soft fwwsh one at a time.

At least my light problem is solved now, Jon thought.

He wondered if there was any wood nearby he could use for a torch, but there didn't seem to be any. But the corridor was well-lit enough, though. He could see all the way down it—and see exactly what had been carved on the walls.

Jon was further amazed, and very slowly, he began to walk down its length.

There was an endless tide of carvings, scrawled in all kinds of languages save for Tamrielic. The dominating one was the dragon's tongue—it was the largest out of all the others, and seemed to be boldly proclaiming something. Beneath the languages, Jon's eyes found carvings, but not of words in other tongues...

Images. They were images.

Drawn to the nearest, he knelt down. In the dull glare of the orange flames the chasms in the carvings were outlined more clearly, making them wavy and black, but they were carved with astounding reality. Jon realized that the one he was staring at could only be Helgen. Buildings were aflame, and figures were fleeing. A child was kneeling next to his wounded father on the open road. A tower's head was smashed and crumbled in. Soldiers ran aimlessly on the roads, readying arrows, firing spells, at a huge dragon who was circling high above, jaws parted in a silent but haunting roar as fiery rocks fell around it in a dizzying shower.

It was carved with shocking reality. Jon could almost smell the smoke and hear the screams...they resonated in his mind. He thought he saw the flames flicker a little in the stone wall, thought he saw Alduin's eyes glow in his head...

Jon stepped away from it, unable to look at it a moment longer.

He turned to examine the carving that faced directly across the Helgen scene...only to see that it was the same. Well...nearly the same. Jon stared—it was carved, once again, with astonishing clarity, but this time there were differences. It showed the same area of Helgen, but the dragon was swooping down to grasp an Imperial soldier from the top of the largest tower in the town. A horse was running wildly from the fray, eyes rolling in terror from the fire and the smoke and the stench of death. And a figure was jumping from the top of the crumbled-in tower in the southwest corner of the town towards the partially-destroyed inn on the other side.

Jon frowned, kneeling down and looking at the tiny figure closer. He remembered that he had done that seemingly impossible feat. For a moment, he wondered if it was him. But no—it showed instead what appeared to be a young woman...a Nord, maybe? Yes, definitely a Nord, like him...but not quite. The cheekbones were too high, the chin just slightly too pointed. The hair that flowed behind her was very dark brown, nearly black, but the edges twisted into long Nordic braids. There was a look of unmistakable terror on her face.

How am I seeing all this? Jon stared, surprised at himself. He examined the carving again. The woman's head was no larger than his thumb but the carving had been done with incredible precision. It was set stone, but he could almost see her leaping from one balcony to the next.

Sudden suspicion gripped him. Jon stepped back from the carving and returned to the one he previously had looked at. There—he could see a figure standing in the broken tower. He must have missed it earlier. The figure was preparing to make the jump to the next inn, but Jon saw it wasn't the same Nordic woman. It was an Argonian with long straight horns from the back of his head, his hands still tied together, looking scared but determined. His face, Jon saw, didn't look quite as Argonian-ish as most others he had seen. Looking at him, Jon thought he looked more dragonish than reptilian.

Who are they? Jon wondered. They're at Helgen...and above them is Alduin...but I've never seen them in my life! I never saw them at Helgen—and they never came on the carts.

He straightened, and realized that he had missed several of these picture carvings behind him, while more lay ahead of him. He turned and headed back to the ones he had missed before. Again, he saw the same scene, of burning Helgen, of Alduin destroying and wrecking the place, the figures in slightly different positions than the previous and next. He had missed three carvings, Jon saw. In each of those carvings of Helgen, there was a different person leaping from the tower to the inn. There was a young Nord woman with long flowing brown hair and total disbelief written across all her features, as though she wasn't entirely sure what she was doing. There was a slender Khajiit woman leaping with nearly careless ease from the tower down to the inn. Her long tail streamed out behind her, but her eyes seemed to shimmer like flame in the firelight nearby, and sparkle with life in a lifeless stone carving. An unusually short, dark-haired Dunmer was preparing to make the leap. Her face, Jon noticed, wasn't quite as angled as he remembered most Elven faces to be. It was more rounded, the cheekbones high but less sharp, the hair twisted back into a widow's peak but the eyes less almond-shaped.

Who are they? Jon thought, as he slowly rose and headed back the way he had come, to move down the rest of the tunnel. They all are in the same place as I was...when I was captured by the Imperials and Alduin was sacking Helgen...

He came to the next set of Helgen carvings. One of them, he saw was a young Nord woman. She had short, shoulder-length hair that might have been light brown. Her face was beautiful and slightly slanted, the cheekbones high, the chin rounded, the eyes bright even set in stone. But what Jon noticed about her was the fact that in the carving Alduin was diving towards her as she leapt with his huge talons extended—and that something seemed to swing at her throat as she took the leap over the fiery abyss beneath her.

Is that a dragon pendant?

Then he turned around to examine the carving directly opposite. He wondered if it was still Helgen—and Jon saw that yes, it was. But he hurried towards it, suddenly breathless with disbelief himself.

In this carving, he saw himself, preparing to take the plunge. He saw his eyes were full of fear but a ferocious determination. Gathered behind him, Jon could see Ulfric and Ralof and a few other rebels of their band—fierce, immobile carvings, readying themselves for the leap. Beyond, Alduin circled. The Helgen here, he saw, seemed much fuller than the other carvings of burning Helgen. More lined the streets—fallen or upright, dead or living.

For a moment, Jon searched the carving, searching for any sign of a tail or a raggedly-dressed woman. He half expected to find the figures from the other carvings here, but was surprised when he couldn't see them anywhere, as though they had never existed within Helgen.

Every carving is so realistic, he thought. Still life...

He stepped back. So who were the others, then? Why were they in Helgen...in my place, it seems?

The tunnel, he felt beneath his feet, was starting to slope, but the braziers illuminated the way. It seemed to go at a gentle slant towards underground, and by the cool air that calmly rushed up from beneath it, Jon guessed it went deeply. But he saw the walls were becoming ridged—divided into separate parts, like bars of a cage, and between each ridge were carvings.

He was drawn to them. He couldn't help it. And he began to notice patterns, the further he progressed down the corridor. The long-haired young Nord girl, the Argonian, the Nord with short dark braided hair, the Khajiit, the Nord woman with the dragon pendant, which she always seemed to wear, the Dunmer with the fiery eyes, and himself. Beneath each carving were sketched runes. For all of them, there was Draconic, but for the Dunmer's, Jon saw that the complex language of the Dark Elves and what he presumed was the nearly-unfathomable tongue of the Daedra were written in unison alongside the dragon's tongue.

He saw the carvings always varied. He saw even without truly understanding who the others were that they were leading different paths, but in the same land. He could recognize many of the cities that appeared around them or the background, and caught in his astonishment and bemusement, he observed random carvings. He saw Jorrvaskr appear behind the Dunmer and the Nord girl, and the dark-haired braided woman standing in something that appeared to bear reminiscence to the Ratways. No...that large room...what was it called? The Ragged Flagon...he watched the Khajiit standing before an ancient word wall, one that Jon recognized in a flash as the one in Bleak Falls Barrow. She was staring at one of the runes which were brighter than all the others. The Argonian was doing the same. The Nord woman with the dragon pendant was also in the Ratways like that dark-haired braided one...and then Jon saw himself, standing before the word wall in Bleak Falls Barrow just like the Khajiit and Argonian, with Ulfric beside him. Jon could remember that memory...he had translated the word wall for him, and he had touched it, and all the Draugr in the chamber had awoken...

His eyes flickered to the next carvings. More and more. They were endless. He progressed down the tunnel. At varying points, he watched the dragons sneak into what Jon could only presume were their lives. The tunnel seemed to span forever...the air grew cooler and pricked at Jon's skin, and the fires, he noted, seem to grow duller. He wondered what would happen if they all went out. Could he feel his way back to the bright entrance again?

He came to the end of the corridor. He stepped through the arching doorway, to find himself in a huge room, one that completely took his breath away. Jon stared. The walls loomed high as the interior of Dragonsreach—and they were full of carvings. Along the walls, he saw Alduin in every single one. And in every single one, he saw one of the seven warriors he had been following facing him. Jon's eyes sought out his own and he saw his legendary fight with the World-Eater—no longer a boy, but a man, stronger, wiser, more determined. At his side, Paarthurnax, pure white, roaring defiance to his brother as he collided in battle with him one last time.

His eyes drifted to the ceiling. He had to tilt back his head completely to see it. There was Alduin—his great black wings were unfurled, spreading nearly from ceiling to ceiling. And before him, wings spread in flight and eyes gleaming with rage, were seven dragons. Seven dragons, facing the World-Eater, each releasing the Thu'um as one unified Voice. The carving upon the ceiling was more alive than any other Jon had seen. Metalwork and precious stones had been involved with this particular carving. Alduin was of black ebony, and his eyes bore two gleaming rubies. The dragons surrounding him were of different colours, with different eyes. On the edges was a huge silver dragon, with a magnificent tail-blade and sparkling eyes of moonstone blue. A smaller but undeniably fierce dragon of copper red scales and gleaming black spines and gold-patterned wings flew beside the darker one, its eyes a pair of sparkling topaz. Beside the copper dragon flew one made of dark ebony and shimmering moonstone with a pair of gleaming sapphires for eyes—Jon sensed it was him, knowing that it was not just his pale skin and dark hair, but the darkness of Alduin and the good of Paarthurnax. Beside him flew a truly mighty creature—a deep, dark bluish-grey like steel and azure mixed together, with wings black as night, a pair of dark red rubies, red as Alduin's, as its eyes. Beside it was, to Jon's mild confusion, a two-sided dragon. One half of it was made of shining gold, bright as the sun, and on that side, a glinting emerald was its glittering eye, but on the other half it was black as Alduin's scales, with a set ruby in its head. Beside the two-sided dragon flew a brown dragon with huge silver wings and an incredibly long and graceful tail, eyes sparkling sapphire. Lastly flew a mighty white, blue and brown dragon, wings coloured burnt umber, whose eyes were dark and sparkled like polished chips of amethyst.

All of them were facing the huge black dragon that rose before them.

For a moment, Jon was confused...he felt he did not understand. Seven dragons...but he had faced Alduin alone...if this was to commemorate a Dragonborn's defeat of Alduin...

But he found himself remembering what he had seen. The six others...they, too, had followed his path...not in exactly the same way, but they had all turned out to be Dragonborn. He had all seen them fighting, drawing blade, arrow and claw to the World-Eater.

And now here they all are, Jon thought. In this chamber...it seems to be devoted to the defeat of Alduin. Seven dragons...the seven of us...but we did not face him as one...

Who are the others? Where did they come from?

And it was then that he was aware of a soft, ominous voice filling every corner of the stone room. Jon hesitated—he felt an icy breeze prickle at his skin. He realized that beyond this chamber lay one more. But unlike this room, which was full of firelight from the several enormous braziers that lay in each corner of the stone room of carvings, the corridor that led to the next chamber was pitch black.

He blanched and gagged at the stench that flowed from within the corridor, riding the cool and icy wind out of it. It was the scent of decay and rot and ice—the smell of death. Swiftly he drew Kodaav, and the ancient blade hummed in the air.

Jon felt a terrible reluctance to enter the dark corridor. He felt fear tugging at the edges of his resolve, but he pushed them away. Kodaav was reassuringly heavy in his hand. Now he faced the darkness that lay beyond.

But he was not prepared for what it contained.

A mutilated, strangled and guttural voice hissed from the shadows.

Are you here to free us at last, Dovahkiin?


A/N: And there we have it, folks! Who are those mysterious voices in that dark room? What do all the carvings mean? Poor Jon is befuzzled but he'll learn soon enough *sinister smile*. Reviews are love - you know what to do ;D Shout is Out.